


a little hell

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Bucky Barnes Feels, Drunken Shenanigans, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exes, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Kate Bishop/America Chavez, POV Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Clint Barton, not a/b/o
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The clunky purple hearing aids are new, as are the sweeping, intricate patterns of black and purple ink escaping from under the rolled sleeves of his flannel, but it’s still him. Bucky could identity that soft mess of blond hair in his dreams - does, sometimes, his subconscious remembering that familiar lanky walk and off-kilter smile.As Bucky stares he catches the belt loop of the girl’s jeans and tugs gently so she’s not in Tony’s face. She rolls her eyes but obeys with an air that suggests she’s just humouring him. A second later he turns and his eyes meet Bucky’s. His lips tilt up into a ghost of a smile, the smile Bucky’s been thinking about for the last two years.He turns around so he doesn’t have to look.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 64
Kudos: 408





	a little hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).



> This is unrelated to the earlier werewolf fic I wrote. I like it. In this, Alphas are just in charge and the human population recognizes them as being higher-ranking than normal werewolves, there's nothing else to it.
> 
> Bobbi, I hope this was the werewolf h/c that you wanted.

“Are they _allowed_ in here?”

“Shh, Ester.”

“But-”

“Hi,” Bucky says to the receptionist, not-so subtly grabbing Steve by the collar so he can’t give the people whispering about them an earful.

He wrinkles his nose at the sour stench of apprehension and disgust lingering in the air. The woman behind the desk is staring like she’s seen a live bomb standing in front of her, rather than two men in hurriedly-ironed suits. Bucky tugs on Steve’s shirt again as a warning and then lets go, folds his gloved hands in front of him and puts on his best charming smile.

“We’re here about the wolves,” he elaborates.

“I don’t know anything about that,” she says quickly. “We don’t deal with your k- you should go.”

“Your boss called _us_ ,” Steve says, a twist of displeasure in his voice.

“That doesn’t sound right,” she replies, apparently unaware of how close she is to getting an hour-long lecture about discrimination from Steve. “Why don’t you call our supernatural line and from there you can-”

“There you are,” Alexander Pierce announces as he walks into the reception, tailed by three men with guns. “Janine, I’ll take it from here. You must be the fellows who have come to pick up your packmate. Shouldn’t let them run amuck, hmm?”

“They’re not _pets_ ,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Bucky elbows him.

“We’ll need to see your Alpha identification first, of course,” Pierce says.

One of his grunts holds a hand out to Bucky.

Bucky blinks at him for a second in puzzlement and then realizes the guy is expecting _him_ to hand over the ID. Very surprisingly, he manages to keep the laughter back, instead points to his left and down until his fingers touch a mop of blond hair. He doesn’t look at Steve’s expression because he knows he’ll start cackling if he sees the indignation there. They’re already on thin ice by being here.

Luckily Steve doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t grab the grunt by the throat either, which is a relief, just pulls out the card and hands it over. Bucky’s not particularly enthused over the concept of being thrown out by the Director of Supernatural Affairs today. (He’s only got the one suit and he doesn’t want it getting fucked up.)

“Very well,” Pierce says when the grunt nods and hands the identification back. “Right this way.”

They start walking down a hallway. One guy has his hand on the butt of his gun and Bucky carefully ignores it, hopes that Steve will choose to ignore it as well.

“He said that he was with a registered pack, but you never know if they’re just lying so we’ll let them roam free,” Pierce comments. “The people don’t feel safe - think you’re all wild animals, you know how it is.”

“Unfortunately,” Steve mutters.

“I don’t think that, of course,” Pierce says. “I think perhaps we can learn a thing or two from you. I am only one man, however, and the public tends to fear the unknown.”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. Director of Supernatural Affairs or not, Pierce gives him the creeps. It’s a myth that werewolves can scent the evil on someone, but he gets bad feelings just the same as anyone else and Pierce is a _bad_ feeling. The way he says _learn_ makes it sound wrong. At least his grunts just blatantly glare at them.

They get to a door with reinforced steel and about seven different biometric locks. Bucky feels his eyebrows fly up a little and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Steve folding his arms. It’s not even close to a full moon.

The door slides open and Pierce walks into a room split in half by heavy metal bars - silver, naturally, and a familiar face sitting by the door.

He picks up his head when they walk in, catching their scent and getting to his feet.

“Rogers, Barnes,” Tony announces with a grin. “My heroes.”

“Stark,” Steve says, unimpressed.

“This is all a misunderstanding,” Tony says. “I tried to tell them, but they wouldn’t listen to me.”

“Uh huh,” Steve answers. “That’s what it was? You _didn’t_ get drunk and shift illegally in a crowded place, and then assault an officer?”

“I wasn’t drunk and I only did it because he was being a jerk,” Tony replies with a shrug. “At least I didn’t get caught fucking around with official files like those two.”

He points behind him with one thumb flippantly and there’s an immediate growl from that area. It’s not intimidating in the slightest, and Bucky blinks as a pissed-off looking girl stalks up to Tony. She can’t be more than fifteen or sixteen, meticulously neat black hair and a fire in her cornflower blue eyes that feels somehow familiar.

“Listen here, fucko,” she says, pushing a finger into Tony’s chest. Bucky likes her instantly.

“Let it go, Katie-Kate,” the other man in the cell says as he steps into view, and Bucky’s lungs stop working. “He’s not worth it.”

It’s him.

The clunky purple hearing aids are new, as are the sweeping, intricate patterns of black and purple ink escaping from under the rolled sleeves of his flannel, but it’s still him. Bucky could identity that soft mess of blond hair in his dreams - does, sometimes, his subconscious remembering that familiar lanky walk and off-kilter smile.

As Bucky stares he catches the belt loop of the girl’s jeans and tugs gently so she’s not in Tony’s face. She rolls her eyes but obeys with an air that suggests she’s just humouring him. A second later he turns and his eyes meet Bucky’s. His lips tilt up into a ghost of a smile, the smile Bucky’s been thinking about for the last two years.

He turns around so he doesn’t have to look.

“Clint,” Steve says. “You’re alive.”

“Apparently,” Clint replies.

“You know these two, Alpha Rogers?”

“Yeah,” Steve says as Bucky burns holes into his own shoes. “They’re with us as well. Do we need to sign any paperwork for this?”

“No, no,” Pierce says. “We’ll forgo the formalities this time, shall we? Consider it a show of good faith, and perhaps next time it’s needed you can do me the favour.”

Bucky really hopes that there’s not going to be a next time.

Pierce doesn’t follow them outside - thankfully - and Bucky tips his head up to look at the clouds as the rain starts to fall. A few cold droplets land on his nose. Hopefully the weather won’t ruin his suit too much. He’s walking ahead of the others so he doesn’t have to acknowledge anyone, and he briefly wishes the laws were kinder so he could just shift and run off into the wilderness.

That’ll end up with him in a cell, though, so he just stares up at the sky and tries not to feel anything.

It doesn’t really work.

“Thanks for that,” Clint says. “Really, Steve. I appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing,” Steve answers.

“It’s not nothing. Friends look out for friends.”

“Alright. I’ll just owe you one, then - not that you’d ever need my help for anything. Congrats on the whole Alpha thing, by the way. You deserve the win,” Clint says. His nose must have gotten better, if he can locate the Alpha by scent alone. “We’ll get out of your hair, then. Kate, you called the taxi yet?”

“I haven’t even got my phone on,” the girl - Kate - says. “One of those dicks cracked the screen. Can I sue?”

“You can’t take a taxi from here anyway,” Steve says. “They’re watching us from the windows.”

Bucky grimaces. He’s reached their beaten-looking pickup truck and it’d be a lot easier if he was the one who drives. Unfortunately Steve insists on that, so he just stops next to the passenger-side door and waits. Steve clicks the lock a second later because he has some semblance of mercy, and probably because he understands that Bucky’s one move away from strangling him for this.

Tony gets into the backseat behind him and Bucky laments the whole werewolf hearing. He doesn’t want to interact here any more than he has to. Kate gets in as well and starts tapping at her phone, and Bucky wishes she’d start fighting with Tony again so he doesn’t have to listen to the other two outside.

“Fine,” Clint says. “Can you drop us off at the rest stop down the road?”

“Did they get your names?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ll be watching you for the next week,” Steve says. “I know it’s not ideal, but they’ve got enough funding that they’ll hound you - and they lie a lot about being provoked. We have spare rooms up at the Compound. Please? For my peace of mind?”

There’s a pause.

“Guess I’ve gotta do it,” Clint says. “If it was just me I’d risk it, but… thanks. It’s not fair to make Kate run from the law again so soon.”

“She yours?” Steve’s voice isn’t judgemental.

“Yes and... no? I didn’t turn her, if that’s what you’re asking. I wouldn’t-”

“It’s okay, Clint.”

“Wait,” Tony says, apparently just cluing into what’s going on. “Clint? Like Clint _Barton?_ ”

Bucky glances up at the mirror to see Kate lowering her phone to stare at Tony. “You know him?”

“Not personally, but he’s got a reputation at the Compound,” Tony says. “He never told you about him and Barnes? Bucky, you should tell us the-”

“Shut up,” Bucky interrupts sharply, and his voice comes out so flat and cold that he can see Tony flinch a little. Even Kate looks a little nervous at his tone, and she doesn’t know any of the story, based on the curiosity in her eyes.

It’s not surprising that Clint wouldn’t say anything about him. Bucky’s not shocked - it’s clear that he wasn’t as significant to Clint as Clint was to him.

Steve and Clint get in the car a second later.

Steve turns on the engine and then glances at Bucky. His expression is sympathetic. Bucky wants to get out of the car. “We have free rooms, right?”

“Sure,” Bucky says shortly, even though he has no idea. He _wants_ to say no.

They start driving down the road back to the Compound in silence, broken only by Kate muttering to herself about someone being a bitch on Instagram. Tony tries to turn the radio on once and Bucky nearly breaks the stereo system with how hard he slams it off again. No one else seems brave enough to say anything.

He can’t help sneaking a glance up at the mirror, catches Clint looking back at him. There’s a painful-looking bruise colouring dark on his forehead that hadn’t been visible in the cell. One of the Supernatural Affairs guys probably hit him, knowing how they feel about werewolves.

Bucky looks out the window instead.

Natasha’s waiting for them when they get back.

She’s leaning up against the van they use to ship the kids around in, hair pulled into a loose ponytail. She looks tired and stressed - no doubt because there was a high chance they wouldn’t get Tony back, and this is the third time this month he’s been apprehended. Bucky’s pretty sure she’s waiting to strangle him behind closed doors for making her worry because _god knows_ she can’t show emotion in front of people.

Bucky doesn’t look, but he sees the way she straightens when the car doors shut behind him, and then she’s striding past him.

The slap is so loud that it makes him flinch.

“What the fuck-” Kate starts.

“It’s okay. I deserved it. Hey, Nat,” Clint says.

“Hi,” Natasha says flatly.

“Got it out of your system or d’you want to try again, on the other side?”

“I’m done,” she answers. “You’re still an idiot, though. Welcome back.”

“I don’t know about _welcome_ ,” Clint says, and Bucky heads inside.

“Evening,” Bruce greets as he notices Bucky curled in a corner of the couch. “I’m making tea. Would you like some?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. “Sorry.”

Bruce doesn’t judge him for being in a bad mood, he’s found, which is why Bucky enjoys hiding down in his section of the lab. His suit jacket’s been thrown aside with his tie and there’s no hope of getting them back on. Bucky’s kind of enamoured with the idea of just staying where he is for a few weeks, long enough that there’s no sign of old memories to be found anywhere.

He wishes Bruce kept alcohol here.

Bucky listens as Bruce potters around the bench he keeps the kettle and mugs in, keeps his gaze fixed to a spot on the floor. Tony burned it once with a chaotic experiment and they haven’t been able to fix it since. Even replacing the carpet hadn’t worked.

Bruce sits down next to him. “I heard Clint’s back.”

“Not willingly,” Bucky says. “He’ll be gone soon.”

“Hmm,” Bruce answers. “Do you _want_ him to be gone?”

“I wish Steve had left him in the fucking cell,” Bucky says. “I wish we’d left _Stark_ in the fucking cell.”

Bruce doesn’t say anything to that. There’s not really anything _to_ say - Bucky’s just angry at the world in general right now, pissed off and still reeling from seeing Clint in the flesh again. He hadn’t been sure that he’d ever see him again. Now he has, he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do. Clint’s got a _kid_ following him around now.

He’s moved on. Clearly. 

“You’ve been doing great, this last month,” Bruce says kindly. “You’ll be fine, Bucky. No matter what happens.”

“Thanks.”

“That being said,” Bruce continues. “Steve asked me to send you upstairs. He’s working out things for the new girl - Kate, and since you run a lot of the unofficial things…”

Ah, to be Steve’s second-in-command. Most of the time it’s a good thing. Right now, he’s regretting picking their tiny Alpha-to-be out of the trash and patching up his wounds. He shouldn’t have taken on any responsibility - should’ve left it to Natasha, she’s good at dealing with her own emotions.

Bucky unrolls himself out of the couch and gets to his feet. He doesn’t know what expression is currently sitting on his face, but judging from Bruce’s apprehensive one it isn’t good.

_It’s fine,_ he tells himself as he walks up the stairs. _He’s_ fine. He’s better than isolating himself in a laboratory with only Bruce for company. (Bucky loves Bruce. He just doesn’t love the herbal tea and yoga so much, and Bruce’s shifted form is… _ominous_ , to say the least.)

Steve’s standing with Kate, gesturing at something near the elevators.

Kate still has to look down at him and she looks like she’s zoning out on top of that. It’s a strikingly familiar look that belongs on a completely different face, and Bucky realizes it’s just Steve and Kate. There’s no sign of Clint, and suddenly Bucky’s building headache feels twice as large.

He’s fine.

He’s certainly not a little disappointed.

“America’s your age, I think,” Steve’s telling Kate when he approaches them. “Unless you’d rather room with Clint…?”

“God, no,” Kate replies immediately. “He snores _way_ too loud, and he keeps eating these burritos in bed - the ones with the hot sauce? It’s awful. Please don’t make me room with him.”

“Well, at least he hasn’t changed,” Steve answers dryly. “Oh, there’s America. America! You mind showing Kate that room next to yours? She’s going to be staying for a few days.”

Bucky watches as America drops the armful of weights with a loud clang and lopes over to them.

She’s wearing a sleeveless hoodie that shows off every inch of muscle and Bucky watches with great amusement as Kate’s eyes go wide. America gets close enough that Kate has to tilt her head up to make eye contact, and then America smiles and Bucky’s sure he’s going to have to grab Kate before she collapses.

“Hi,” America greets. “We’re on the second floor.”

“Uh,” Kate says. She doesn’t seem to be able to come up with anything else.

Bucky struggles not to burst out laughing at the both of them, leans up against a desk to watch this go down. God, teenagers. Steve looks like he’s having trouble keeping a neutral face as well, but he’s got to keep it up for appearance’s sake.

America starts guiding Kate towards the stairs and they watch for a few seconds. There’s some kind of a story being told by America based on the enthusiastic hand-waving that’s going on, but Bucky’s fairly sure that Kate isn’t hearing a word of it. No one with an expression _that_ transfixed is actually understanding words.

“I’m glad she agreed to it,” Steve says absently. “We only had two rooms available, anyway.”

“Wait,” Bucky says. “I thought we had-”

“Billy and Teddy had a fight. They’re sleeping in separate rooms for now, and I’m forcing Tony to sleep in a bed now instead of the lab. Hopefully he’ll stop looking for trouble if he gets some proper rest.””

“I think that’s just how Stark is,” Bucky reasons, then remembers why he’d been upset. “Don’t tell me you’re putting him in the room next to mine. Steve, _please_.”

“I’m not putting a teenage girl with a bunch of strange older men if she’s alone,” Steve says, crosses his arms. He’s right, but Bucky still hates him for it. “I know it’s not fun, Buck, but you should try talking to him anyway. What you two had was-”

“If you want to live you’ll shut your mouth, Rogers,” Bucky snaps, giving in to the sudden flash of fury that strikes him.

Steve sighs. “I’m just saying-”

“Don’t,” he says shortly, pushes off the desk and starts stalking towards the exit. “I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

Steve doesn’t try to stop him, and Bucky wonders how truly pissed off he looks if even _Steve_ isn’t willing to fuck with him. He’s already begun mentally calculating which bars will be open at this time of day, and how many of them will be fine with a werewolf just passing out on the counter top. There’s a few, luckily.

As he reaches the door - because god hates him, clearly - Clint’s just pushing his way inside. There’s dark circles under his eyes and he looks resigned, which Bucky does not care about because he couldn’t give less of a shit about Clint Barton. Instead he looks away and shoves past, ignores the way his skin raises in goosebumps when their elbows touch.

“Another,” Bucky says - slurs, more like, because his words are getting drawn out and the Brooklyn keeps creeping in with every glass that the bartender slides over.

“Think you might’ve had enough,” the bartender tells him, not unkindly. “How about a water?”

The bar is a little blurrier than he remembers it being when he walked in.

There’s a lot more people around too, and Bucky’s not a huge fan of the flashing lights but the bass is so loud that he can’t discern it from his own heartbeat. The bartender slides over a glass of water and he fumbles for it, misses grabbing it entirely.

What a fucking mess. He can’t even remember how he got here, or why he was at a bar in the first place. He swipes for the glass again and knocks it over, swears loudly as it splashes onto his shirt. It sticks to his skin uncomfortably and the obvious answer is to get rid of the offending fabric immediately, although buttons are proving to be difficult.

“Need some help, honey?”

The question comes from a woman - he thinks, anyway. As far as he can tell she’s got a black dress on, and the voice is distinctly feminine, but his eyesight is failing him a little. His _brain_ is failing him a little as well.

“Why don’t I take you back to my place, hmm? I’ll take care of you.”

“’m fine,” Bucky manages.

“I don’t think you are, sweetheart.”

Something about that feels distinctly _wrong_ even through the alcohol - he’s not _her_ sweetheart - and when fingertips trail down his bare chest Bucky recoils. This has the unfortunate effect of him nearly toppling off of the bar stool he’s perched on top of. He manages to get his balance back, but she’s still moving in on him.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he tries again.

She catches his wrist with her long fingernails and they’re smacked away just as quickly. Bucky thinks he’s the one that did it until he remembers his other hand is still holding his wet shirt. He blinks.

“Hey,” Clint says, appearing out of thin air like some kind of ghost. “He told you to back off. Get lost, buddy.”

The woman looks unimpressed. “You got a claim on him?”

Bucky’s breath catches.

“I said get lost,” Clint says evenly, but he doesn’t answer the question. He’s standing just close enough that Bucky can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and suddenly he feels cold in comparison, still damp from the water and filled with emotions he can’t quite put a name to.

The woman takes a step back after a second - not surprising, considering Clint’s well over six foot and while he looks harmless a lot of the time, there’s no doubt he could easily snap someone in half. He’s what people _expect_ an Alpha to look like. A second later she’s disappearing into the crowd and Clint’s also stepping away. A flicker of panic - and anger - flares up in Bucky’s chest.

That’s _it?_

“Fuck you, Barton,” he spits, gets to his feet and stumbles in the direction of the door. He doesn’t look at Clint.

Bucky realizes halfway down the street that he’s angry because Clint _didn’t_ lay a claim. He didn’t even try to talk about it - _nothing_ , because why would he? It’s not like he gives a shit. He probably wouldn’t have even approached if his goddamn hero complex hadn’t struck.

These shoes aren’t made for walking in the rain. His feet aren’t secure on the slick pavement, and the second he realizes that he overbalances and falls on his ass with a thunk that sends pain shooting up his tailbone.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he shouts at the clouds, considers just laying here in the street in the rain for a while.

He doesn’t get the chance, because his view of the sky is obscured by black leather and wet blond hair. “You know you’re supposed to be the one who’s got it together, right?”

“Leave me alone,” Bucky grumbles.

“Yeah,” Clint says, crouches down next to him in the rain. The knees of his jeans are getting soaked and Clint doesn’t seem to care. “I don’t think so. You want me to call you a cab?”

“Natasha needs the car tomorrow,” Bucky remembers aloud. Shit. He can’t drive home like this.

His stomach lurches suddenly and he rolls away just in time to throw up by the gutter, rather than on himself. Oh god, what the fuck is wrong with him? He’s like an edgy teenage girl, getting absolutely trashed because his ex is back in town.

A handkerchief is passed over to him.

It’s patterned with little purple arrows, and Bucky wipes his mouth and shoves it into his pocket. A second later he’s being helped to his feet by careful, warm hands, only touching him sparingly but keeping him upright nonetheless. Clint’s gentle with him, and his fingertips touch Bucky’s forehead to brush some of his hair out of his eyes like he used to.

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek and ignores his unsteady stomach.

It doesn’t help that Clint isn’t just an ex. He’s _the_ ex, and maybe Bucky hasn’t been dealing with the loss as well as he thought he was.

“Here, give me the keys,” Clint says. “You remember where you parked it?”

Bucky reluctantly hands over the keys and gestures in the direction of the parking lot where he’d left the car earlier. He nearly trips over his own feet again and Clint’s arm curls around his waist carefully, supports him.

He’s so _warm_.

It gets kind of blurry from there, but somehow they get to the car and then Clint’s bundling him into the passenger seat and turning the heat up all the way. Bucky realizes he’s freezing without Clint pressed up against him - soaking wet and half-naked, and he doesn’t keep spare clothes in the communal car.

“Take this.”

He accepts the heavy flannel before he’s considered why that might be a terrible idea, and then Clint’s shrugging his jacket back on over his thin undershirt and turning the car on. Bucky doesn’t _want_ to wear Clint’s shirt - it feels too much like falling back into old habits, too much like long nights spent in front of the TV with too-long hoodies that he stole from the closet. But he’s freezing and drunk and he can’t afford to catch a cold, so he slides it on.

It smells like him.

“Clint?”

“Yeah, Buck?”

“You suck.”

“Which kind of sucking?”

Fucking joker. “Both.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I know. Let’s get you home.”

Bucky leans against the car door and closes his eyes. Clint turns on the radio to a punk station and taps his fingers on the steering wheel along with the drumbeat. The rain continues to fall outside, and Clint’s shirt is soft against his skin.

Like this, he can almost pretend that Clint never left at all.

It gets fuzzier after that, the alcohol and long night catching up to him.

He doesn’t remember the drive, and he doesn’t remember getting home. He _does_ remember Clint’s voice in his ear, soft and reassuring, and he remembers resting his face on someone’s chest. There’s no way that Clint carried him up to bed, but for some reason his brain insists that was what happened even though he’s way too heavy for that shit.

He comes back to himself in time to feel the duvet being pulled up to his chin.

There are fingers being gently brushed against his cheek like their owner is afraid of touching him properly, and Bucky’s too tired to open his eyes but he makes a half-hearted grab for them.

“Please,” he says drowsily, doesn’t really know what he’s asking for. He makes another grab and catches a hand in his, and their fingers gently twine with his for a second.

“There’s water on the table,” Clint says. “Take the pills when you wake up.”

It can’t be Clint.

Clint _left_.

“You’re not real,” he mumbles.

“Okay,” Clint says easily, his voice low and steady. “Don’t worry about it, then. May as well get some rest, right?”

That seems logical enough.

He wakes up with a roaring headache and no sign of Clint Barton beyond the aspirin sitting next to his favourite mug.

Still, while he’s sitting by the toilet he has time to think about Clint.

To be fair, he’s usually thinking about Clint. He’s been doing better about shoving it into an unmarked corner of his brain, but it’s harder when Clint’s actually _here_.

It’d be easier if Clint _wasn’t_ doing great without him. For fuck’s sake, he’s got a _kid_ now.

He doesn’t bother with leaving his room for the rest of the day.

Once he’s done with a shower he just crawls straight back into bed with his laptop. Steve brings him noodles and more water because Bucky texts him for ten minutes straight, and because he’s a good Alpha and he looks after everyone, no matter what some of the older wolves say about them and their Compound.

“Do I want to ask?”

“No,” Bucky says. “And if you do, I’ll ignore you.”

Steve just sighs and gets up to leave.

Bucky can always just blame his mood on the full moon, even if it’s a week away.

A week away still means that the younger wolves get erratic, changing back and forth without any real control over it - he’ll be picking fur out of his coffee mugs for days - but Bucky was one of the few people lucky enough to be born this way, so he gets to enjoy none of the excuses that the kids get. They’re on a skeleton crew, which means he can’t hole up in his room for now. It’ll be just himself, Steve, America and Billy.

God, he hates doing paperwork when everyone else is running around. He emerges from his room just in time to trip over a small, dark-furred wolf that’s trailing after America, registers it as Kate a second later.

“Tell me you’re doing something useful,” he calls to America, gets a distracted hand wave in response.

He sighs.

It takes him two hours to figure out that Steve’s left to do god-knows-what, and then he’s left to sift through all the paperwork on his own. He adds Kate to their pack registration just in case - Clint was registered with them when the accident happened, and although Bucky had been tempted to tear it up he’d never actually done it.

Signing things that require no thinking means his mind wanders, and inevitably, his mind wanders back to Clint.

What an _asshole_.

Something taps against his door.

“Yeah?”

Bucky doesn’t look up from his work as the clicking of claws comes across the floorboards. Sometimes Natasha will show up to keep him company, so he doesn’t react until he realizes the wolf is more of a sandy gold than the warmer brown he’s expecting. It’s also much larger than Bucky’s expecting, and he freezes for a second until it sits down across from him and rests its chin on the table.

“What do you want.”

The wolf tips its head to the side. There’s a telltale jingling noise and Bucky realizes there’s a set of tags around its neck.

They look familiar, and Bucky’s heart stops beating for a moment.

He’s getting real tired of that happening.

He doesn’t get a chance to react properly because there’s a pop and crack of joints as Clint starts shifting back and Bucky automatically averts his eyes. The wolves are ordered to carry a bag with clothes wherever they go in case of indecency charges, so once the - frankly horrific - sounds of his human form regaining control stop, Bucky feels safe enough looking back.

“Sorry,” Clint says. “I… it’s harder to control where I end up from the other side.”

Bucky feels a pang of sympathy for that, but he’s got more pressing questions. He sets his paperwork aside and stands up, looking at Clint. Now he’s watching for it, he can see the shadow of the chain underneath Clint’s _Biconic_ shirt.

“Are you still wearing my tags?”

Clint shifts on his feet, turning to look out the window. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Kind of late for that,” Bucky says. “The fuck do you think you’re doing, Barton?”

“Didn’t think you’d care,” Clint says. It’s not said in a mean way - Bucky’s pretty sure that Clint doesn’t know _how_ to be purposefully mean - just matter-of-fact, like he’s expecting Bucky to despise him.

“I _don’t_ care,” Bucky retorts. It comes out flimsy and weak and immediately he feels stupid about it.

“I’ll take them off if you want me to,” Clint tells him, and then he takes a step in the direction of the door.

Bucky doesn’t think. He just processes Clint heading towards the door and then he’s blocking the way. His heart’s beating hard from some mix of fear and repeating memories playing in his head, and he’s close enough that he can see Clint’s pupils dilate. He doesn’t know what it means, though - doesn’t know what any of it means, and suddenly he’s angry again.

“I should go,” Clint says.

“What, you’re just gonna- gonna leave?” _Again_ , he doesn’t say.

“Bucky, I’m-”

“Shut up,” Bucky snaps, yanks Clint’s shirt off of him. It rips. “Just- shut up, I don’t _care_.”

Clint opens his mouth to speak again and Bucky shoves him down onto the couch roughly, straddles his lap as he grabs at the buttons on his jeans. He’s pretty sure he breaks off a button but he’s beyond caring right now, sets his teeth against the curve of Clint’s shoulder and bites down _hard_. The sharp gasp Clint lets out has a vicious spike of satisfaction humming through his veins, and he gets up again to rip off Clint’s pants.

He smells like other people and Bucky’s fucking _furious_ over it.

“Look, Bucky, you don’t have to p-”

Bucky _snarls_ at him. He doesn’t mean to and the second he does it Clint’s eyes go wide and very, very blue. They stare each other off for a long moment and the intensity makes the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. He’s still got Clint’s jeans fisted in his hands. Clint is half-hard.

He remembers having more self-control before this.

Clint doesn’t break off the eye contact. He’s got a deer-in-the-headlights look that’s oddly reminiscent of the time Bruce had asked the pack about salads.

Bucky should probably - _definitely_ \- stop this, he should drop Clint’s pants and get out of here, run for the nearest exit and keep going. He braces himself to pull away and then Clint, still maintaining the stare on top of an expression that’s too complicated to read, slowly and purposefully spreads his legs.

“Keep going,” Clint says hoarsely.

Is _that_ what he wants? Sex?

Fine. Whatever. Maybe if they fuck then Bucky will be able to actually get _on_ with his life. Catharsis, and all that. Bucky still keeps lube in the couch cushions - despite the fact he hasn’t had sex since Clint - and he slicks up his left hand automatically, bites his lip so he doesn’t give into the urge to press his lips into the vulnerable skin of Clint’s thighs.

Bucky’s a little rough with the fingering - _frantic_ , maybe, but rough makes it sound like he’s doing it intentionally. He’d be worried, except most of his brain is focused on being angry and Clint’s got one hand pressed against his mouth and it’s doing nothing to muffle the moans that escape when Bucky curls his fingers.

All that talk about not being affected by the moon and there’s no other reason for doing this, other than a self-destructive streak that Bucky’s never going to admit to.

There’s something in his brain that’s feral, insisting that he gets rid of any scent on Clint that isn’t _him_ , and even though it’s gloriously unhealthy to obsess like this he’s still doing it.

He still remembers all of this, is the worst part. It’s all the same, Clint’s legs curled around his back, the soft _fuck_ he mouths when Bucky presses his fingers just right. He’s twisted into a position where he can easily push back against Bucky’s thrusts, and it’s ridiculous and addictive and Bucky’s so hard that he feels like he’s dying.

“I gotta,” he says, pulls his fingers back.

He gets a nearly inaudible whine back, and he’s not even sure if Clint realizes he made the noise. It’s more wolf than human, more _want_ than he’s expecting.

Bucky braces one hand on the back of Clint’s thigh - still as much muscle as ever, and Clint’s flexible enough that the position doesn’t matter. They’ve done worse, a _lot_ worse, than fucking on the couch.

They’ve done a lot in general, and Bucky stops with his dick pressed snug up against Clint’s warm skin.

“Why’d you have to _leave_ ,” he says, and his voice cracks.

If he closes his eyes and stops breathing he could just pretend that Clint never left, that they’ve been together this whole time. He could just _pretend_ , and it’d be-

“Hey,” Clint says, soft. “How about I get on top?”

Bucky’s voice is failing him but Clint stays as steady as always, unfolds himself off of the couch and guides Bucky into a sitting position. Bucky’s having trouble looking directly at his face and instead he looks at his own ID tags settled against the faded scars on Clint’s chest as Clint straddles him carefully. What does it mean, that Clint’s kept them all this time?

“Breathe,” Clint murmurs, hand catching in his hair and stroking softly.

Then he sinks down on Bucky’s cock, so slow and careful that it almost hurts.

Clint’s a lot more gentle than Bucky’s expecting. He fills up the spaces where Bucky was rough with soft touches, his free hand going to Bucky’s shoulder. Then he starts moving in slow, excruciating movements and Bucky’s just sitting there slack-jawed and taking it all of a sudden, letting Clint ride him like it _means_ something.

“You always feel so good,” Clint breathes against his hair. “So good, Bucky.”

Clint shifts so he’s closer, keeps that hand in Bucky’s hair like an anchor, rubs his thumb against that one spot on Bucky’s shoulder that always aches. He remembers that? Bucky’s face feels hot. He tries to hide it in the curve of Clint’s neck, ignores the way he’s smearing wetness on his skin and inhales.

Other people or not, Clint still smells like _home_.

His next inhale is a little shakier.

It feels like nothing’s changed and that _everything’s_ changed, and Clint keeps touching Bucky like he still loves him even with the underlying scent of wolf sticking to the air. Bucky doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just curls his fingers around Clint’s dick and starts stroking.

Clint shudders and comes a minute later, muttering something that sounds a lot like - no, it can’t be.

It sounds like he says _I love you_ , and Bucky doesn’t know if he comes but he’s shivering all over like it hurts.

It does hurt a little, but Clint’s still touching him so sweet and he thinks he might be crying.

“Hey,” Clint murmurs. “Hey, baby, c’mon.”

He sits back so Bucky can see his face - although blurry - and Clint thumbs gently at his cheeks. He’s wiping at the tears and it’s so tender that he wants to cry harder.

He manages to keep it under control, but it’s a hard-won victory.

It doesn’t help when Clint presses a gentle kiss to one cheek, and then the other.

“This isn’t what I was planning,” Bucky croaks. Honestly, he didn’t really know what he was planning here - some kind of angry, sizzling hot sex that would make Clint regret leaving in the first place. He’s pretty sure that isn’t what happened just now.

“Plans never work out,” Clint says with a rueful smile. “Better to just live in the moment.”

“I’m still angry at you.”

“That’s fair,” Clint answers, and then shifts back.

It drags Bucky’s eyes to the flex of muscle in his biceps. The tattoos on his arms do a good job of distracting eyes, but Bucky knows where to look, and there’s still patches where the raised, jagged scar tissue is noticeable. If the ink wasn’t there it’d be perfect imprints of sharp teeth there instead, and the only comfort is that Bucky had torn Rumlow apart for it.

He wonders if Clint can use his bow now they’ve healed - Bucky's got it in storage, for no other reason than that he couldn't bear to throw it away. He still remembers the first few weeks, the frustration and despair that had settled permanently on Clint’s face.

He looks better now. Settled back in his skin somehow.

He looks like the man Bucky had fell in love with, rather than the one with the permanent dark shadows who’d disappeared into the night with a hastily-written note.

“I’m getting you some water,” Clint says softly. “You want to try lying down?”

Bucky doesn’t really remember getting up and finding his way into bed, but somehow he ends up curled on the mattress anyway.

He’s not angry. He _wants_ to be angry.

Bucky’s tired.

When Clint returns with the glass of water and then pauses like he’s about to go again, Bucky catches his wrist and tugs him into bed.

They’ve done this a million times and despite the air of unsure that Clint’s got floating around him, he still curls around Bucky as easy as anything. He starts stroking through Bucky’s hair again a second later. They _fit_ together, and that rock that’s been sitting under Bucky’s ribs for months finally erodes away.

He inhales and Clint smells like sex, like wolf and gunmetal and _Bucky_ , and that’s enough that he can relax. They’re close enough that eye contact isn’t possible and for that, he’s glad. It’s easier to ask the hard questions this way.

“This a one-time thing?”

“I don’t want it to be,” Clint says, the light catching on the gold flecks in his eyes. Those weren’t there before. _Some_ things have changed, he supposes. “Kinda hoping you don’t want it to be, either.”

_I’m scared you’re gonna leave again_ , Bucky thinks. It must be written all over his face because Clint’s expression crumples a little - a flicker of regret, a storm of something else. 

“I was gone for a while, huh,” Clint says.

“You shouldn’t have gone at all.”

“I needed to get my head on straight,” Clint says. “It’s not every day you get nearly torn apart and turned by a werewolf, Buck. I wanted to… I don’t know, I felt like I was missing something.”

“Right,” Bucky says, the bitterness creeping into his voice as he looks away. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Clint’s lips brush his jaw. “Nah,” he answers. “Realized it was here the whole time, I just… didn’t know how to come back.”

“You say ‘hey Bucky, I fucked up. Please forgive me, I’ll do anything. I’m a dumbass for leaving and I’m completely lost without you.’”

“Hey Bucky,” Clint repeats, voice soft as he cups Bucky’s cheek with one hand, gently guides him into eye contact. God, he’s unbelievably beautiful. It’s not fair. He’s smiling a little and it’d be contagious if Bucky’s face wasn’t damp with tears all over again. “I’m completely lost without you.”

“You’re an idiot.” His voice shakes.

“I’m an idiot,” Clint repeats, tips his head to the side and smiles. It’s devastating. “You’re an idiot too, for thinking it didn’t kill me to leave you.”

Bucky doesn’t want to get his hopes up, but- “this mean you’re staying?”

“As long as you want me,” Clint tells him, and god help him, Bucky believes it.

His phone rings, later.

“Steve?”

“Did you get that paperwork done? I just got a text from Maria saying that the Department’s changing some of the rules. I need to read it over before you put it in the mail,” Steve says.

“Uh.”

“Bucky.”

“Something came up,” Bucky says, eyes fixed on the way Clint’s draped over his chest like some kind of oversized cat. As he watches Clint blinks his eyes open sleepily, stretches out in all his six-foot-plus glory. He can’t hear what Bucky’s saying, but there’s still a lazy, soft kind of smile on his lips as he presses it into Bucky’s skin.

“You figured it out, then?”

“Shut up.”

“I’ll get Billy to take care of the paperwork,” Steve says instead of rising to the bait. “And Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky repeats, as Clint shifts up to press a kiss to his throat and then his jaw, the skin-warmed chain of his tags brushing against his skin. “Yeah, I’m happy for me too.”

Steve says something else, but Bucky’s already dropped his phone in favour of tipping his head up to kiss Clint properly, one hand going up automatically to touch every inch of bare skin he can reach. There’s no anger in it this time - although Bucky’s going to be demanding a lifetime of breakfast in bed as reparations, he’s just happy that something has gone right for once. 

The world feels right, for once.

**Author's Note:**

> Update: We have some art! Huge thank you to magenta llama and Bobbi for [this lovely scene](https://magenta-llama-art.tumblr.com/post/615224238354448384/a-gift-from-greyishbobbi-to-shatteredhourglass) that has stolen my heart


End file.
